


Sam Winchester and the Seven Dwarves

by TwentyoneTwelve



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Inspired by Real Events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 23:39:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7290730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwentyoneTwelve/pseuds/TwentyoneTwelve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean drags his brother a long way from the bunker for a beer. <br/>Dean is a closet Disney fan.<br/>Dean has method in his madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam Winchester and the Seven Dwarves

“So, you drove us all the way to Hollywood because this place has jugs of beer for seven dollars?” Sam scrutinized the table top and its geological column patina of spilled beer and spray n’ wipe, before committing an elbow to contact. 

The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkled up as he grinned. “Come for the beer, stay for the burgers. Last I heard, this place got a little overlooked during the great Leviathan Food Plot. Lots of grease, no guilt.” He poured the last of the beer into his glass, and lifted an eyebrow and a finger to the blonde bar girl in the universal sign for a refill. 

“Uh huh.” It couldn’t really be that simple. Surely not. But Sam had spent most of the car ride – a painful few hours mainly stuck in Los Angeles traffic, while the Impala growled in complaint and continually threatened to overheat – on his laptop. There wasn’t anything that quacked of a case anywhere within a hundred miles. “Dean. Really. We drove all this way to Tinsel Tourist Town. We are staying round the corner from all the things that make us miserable - souvenir shops and mega malls. And yeah, blocks and blocks of sidewalk that somehow has never had a ghost carrying item placed next to a famous name.” He looked up to find that Dean had fitted a quarter of his burger into his mouth without spilling any of the fried onion. “Why are we really here? And more importantly, how did you find this place?” 

The hand wave that accompanied this last question encompassed the whole of the small dark room and by extension the small burgundy awning and neon sign outside. “This Place” was squeezed between a waxwork museum and a kebab shop, and he had thought it closed when Dean had led them briskly down the street to the single door. The daylight was still competing with the neon lights on the Boulevard – much earlier than the Winchesters, or anyone without small kids, generally ate – and maybe that was the reason the bar was almost empty. 

He had looked briefly at the other diners as he and Dean had sat down, but only out of habitual threat assessment. Only two other tables had been taken. A group of four young adults – three quarters male, probably backpackers by dress and accents – had taken the semi-circle of padded couches, and were working their way through their own jugs of beer. At the other table, two girls, about the same age as the backpackers, were talking animatedly. The one with curly hair was using a long barreled camera to take pictures of the open sandwich and fries that filled her plate. 

“Patience, Young Grasshopper.” Dean waved a French fry at him. 

“So, get this.” The other girl of the pair - hair rolled up at the nape of her neck, posture dancer straight but entirely relaxed – looked over her phone at the girl with the camera. “Apparently back in the thirties and forties the Disney animators used to come here for breakfast, and they painted all the murals for the Snow White wrap party!” 

Murals? Just as with the other diners, Sam hadn’t paid the bar’s walls or other furnishings any more attention than it took to assure himself that they weren’t breathing, bleeding, moving, or likely to kill him in the time it took to order and eat a burger and fries. He took another bite as cover for a more thorough inspection. Oh. Murals. 

The walls were faux red-brick up to standard ceiling height. Punctuated by neon advertisements for beers were rough wooden frames, and in those – but most likely actually painted on the wall – were individual portraits of each of the Seven Dwarves, done in the iconic animated style of the 1937 film. And above the brick work, harder to see in the atmospherically dim lighting were larger murals, starting above the door and working most of the way around the room, featuring key scenes. 

Sam ducked his face, almost turning side on to his brother as the curly-haired girl swung her camera in their direction. Avoiding photographers was one of his newer skills, honed over the last few years, and he took a second to watch her from the corner of his eye to ensure she was just another millennial with a blog and a big lens rather than anything more threatening. 

But no, she was looking up towards the back of the room, where the big screen TV hid a half-balcony/storage area and another mural of the disguised evil queen giving Snow White a poisoned apple. Her face was alight with what must have been excitement as she pointed out her find to her dancer friend. Neither was more than a few years younger than him, but the gulf was insurmountable. 

He turned back to Dean, his feeling of age increasing at the big grin on his temporally older brother’s face. 

“Pretty cool eh?” Dean gestured at the room around them, one hand catching the waitress on the wrist as she bent to place the new jug of beer on their table. A few drops spilled onto the glossy surface.

“Sorry about that.” She took a rag from her waistband, but Dean reached out and placed a napkin over the small puddle. Her eyes went from the napkin to his face. She looked across at Sam, and then back down at the table top. 

“Would we be able to get the check?” Dean was still smiling. “This will probably be our last round. My brother needs his sleep.” 

“Uh. Sure.” She nodded. More decisively than Sam thought the situation warranted, and headed off.

“I found this place online.” Dean explained, pouring them each another glass. “You know, using Google for one of its intended purposes.” 

“This doesn’t seem to meet your usual criteria. For one thing, there’s no pool table.” 

“Aww…. Sammy. I’m hurt. This place makes up for it in culture and history.” Even under Sam’s withering side-eye Dean managed convincing sincerity. “I mean, come on. Actual Disney animators painted this stuff? Maybe even with the same paints they used on the movie?”

“Nice to meet someone who knows the lore about this place.” The barmaid placed a closed black wallet in front of Dean. He opened it, nodded, and stuffed a couple of crumpled notes in. Closed again, he slid it back towards her. “But actually, the only part they know for sure was Disney work is the one over the door. The rest, well….” She took the wallet. 

“Tip’s included.” Dean shoved a hand into his pocket. Reached again for his beer. 

Sam studied the mural over the door. The colors were a lot softer than the other paintings. This one showed a forest background with a bunch of swallow-tailed birds holding up a banner in their beaks. On the banner in black Gothic letters were the words “We hope we have pleased you.” 

His brother was taking a deep pull on his glass, obviously unconcerned. But, and Sam realized it with a rush of amusement and frustration, Dean’s visible eyebrow, and indeed his whole body were waiting for Sam to make his unilluminated mental way to the place Dean was thinking. He looked down at the napkin his brother had used to wipe the spilled beer away. A roughly drawn double circle containing two arrowheads facing in opposite directions was bleeding away into a smudge on the wet paper. “Dean…” 

His brother pulled a key from his pocket and dangled it on its tag in front of Sam’s face. “What do you call the men of letters that came before the Men of Letters? Men of scribbles? Get this, I found some original sketches by Walt in the bunker. Did some research on your laptop when you thought I was looking at, well, other interesting things. Here’s a funny fact. The rest of this building? Serious haunting mythology. Crying kid, elevator panic alarm when no one’s trapped, some waxworks in the museum who don’t want to stay where they’re put. But nothing’s ever come in here.” 

“You’re planning on a return visit after hours?”

“Sure am, little brother. But burning question first. Which dwarf do you think you’re most like?”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I picked up Sam and Dean and plunked them down in an evening of mine in January 2016.   
> The bar is real. All the lore discussed about it is real - except for one little piece. But I'll let you do your own research on that.   
> I've ragged on the bar a little, but the food was good and the beers are legendary for their size and price.   
> I'd love to know if anyone's been there and what they thought. 
> 
> My first time playing in the SPN fandom, so any suggestions and feedback would be french fries to my writerly soul.


End file.
